Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (45 page)

“Do you know what Thanatos means?” Demos laughed, a sour yellow sound that spilled above him like bile.

“Death,” Caro said.

“You are a smart girl.” He pulled a gun from his pocket and stepped close. “But I am smarter. Do you know why? Because I put LSD in your grappa.”

He pressed the gun against her temple. “Give me the vellum pages,” he said.

“They're in my bag.” Her voice sounded distorted, like an old-fashioned record played on the wrong speed.

“Get them.” Demos shoved her. She reeled across the terrace and fell. Her palms skidded over the rough stones.

“Don't hurt her,” Jude cried. He started toward her, but his legs buckled.

“Stay where you are or I will shoot her, I swear it,” Demos cried.

“Wait.” Jude held up a small red key with numbers. “It opens a locker. There's a map inside that shows where the rest of
Historia Immortalis
is located. Let her go, and the key is yours.”

Caro held her breath. There was no map. What was he doing? Her eyes met Jude's, and even in her drugged state, she understood. The LSD had affected his balance, and he couldn't overpower Demos, so Jude was using his brain to save her.

“Where is this map?” Demos growled.

“The Thessaloniki train station.” Jude shuffled to the railing and dangled the key over the water. “The locker number is on the tag. Let her go, or I'll toss the bloody key.”

Demos's eyes narrowed to slits. “I can break into every locker in that train station.”

“True. But you might attract attention.”

“All right.” Demos lowered the gun.

“Put it on the chair,” Jude said.

“As you wish.” Demos set the gun on the cushion.

Jude threw the key in the opposite direction, and it clattered across the stones. Demos vaulted across the terrace, snatched the key, and tucked it into his pocket. Then he raced back to the chair and grabbed the gun. Behind him the stars melted like candle wax, leaving smoking white streaks in the dark. The triptych lay on the table, next to the amaryllis.

“Worthless!” Demos slammed the butt of the gun against the icons. Chunks of wood scattered.

“Demos, no,” Father Aeneas cried.

“Shut up.” Demos lifted the manuscript box from Caro's duffel bag, then he aimed the gun at the monk.

“What are you doing?” Father Aeneas yelled.

“Silence, you old fool!” With his free hand, Demos pushed the monk to the ground. Father Aeneas lifted one hand, his fingers hooked into claws. Demos hit the monk. A thin line of blood trickled down Father Aeneas's temple and curved inside his ear.

“Don't hurt him!” Caro started toward Father Aeneas. From the corner of her eye, she saw Raphael stumble onto the terrace. His ponytail had come loose, and white-blond hair streamed down his shoulders. Arrapato trailed behind, his nails ticking over the stones.

“Raphael!” she cried.

“Stay where you are,” Demos yelled. An unbearable warmth invaded her shoulder. She heard a clap, and the pendant shattered. Jade pieces slashed into the air. Then she fell to the ground, red beads spilling around her.

“No,” Jude cried. He staggered forward, arms stretched out.

“Idiots. I told you not to move.” Demos whirled, pointing the gun at Jude, then at Raphael.

“You shot Caroline,” Father Aeneas cried.

“Shut up, all of you.” Demos closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. Arrapato yelped and skittered into the house.

Caro struggled to sit up, but her left arm wouldn't move. The LSD made her dress vibrate, magenta blending into crimson. She brushed her right hand over the silk and felt something damp. Then she raised her hand. Her palm was red, as if she'd touched a wet painting.

Demos pushed the box into a plastic bag. Heaving a sigh, he walked over to Father Aeneas and shoved the gun to his head. “On your feet, monk.”

“No, please.” Father Aeneas began to pray. Demos grabbed the monk's beard and pulled the old man to his feet. They shuffled toward the terrace steps. Demos pushed the gun against the monk's temple.

“Do not move,” Demos said. “Do not call the police. Or I will kill him.”

Tears ran down Father Aeneas's face. “Demos, no,” he said. “Let them help Caroline. She's hemorrhaging.”

“A small sacrifice. Now, move.” He lowered the gun to the monk's back and forced him down the terrace steps.

Raphael rushed over to Caro. Jude tried to walk, but his legs gave way. He crawled over the stones. Their faces loomed above her, blotting out the stars. She felt firm pressure on her shoulder.

“Beppe!” Raphael called. “Help me get her into the house.”

“Don't move her,” Jude said. “Caro? Can you hear me?”

She tried to say
Yes
, but everything was spinning.

“She's going to bleed out,” Jude said.

“I can save her,” Raphael said.

No, not that. Anything but that.
Her shoulder burned, and her fingers were numb.

“How?” Jude cried.

“You know how,” Raphael said, holding pressure against her shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers.

“What are you doing?” Jude cried. “Get the hell away from her.”

“I am trying to stop the hemorrhage,” Raphael cried.

“We need to get her to a hospital.”

“There is no time. Jude, listen to me—”

“No.” Jude shoved Raphael. “She won't be like
you
.”

Caro felt Jude pull her into his lap. Down by the water, she heard the boat putter. A feeble light swept back and forth. The monk's voice rose up. Two quick gunshots sounded, followed by a splash.

Caro felt herself being lowered to the cool tiles. Then everything began to whirl. The pain opened like an amaryllis, each petal slick and curled.

“Mia cara?”
Raphael said. His voice ricocheted inside her head. A deeper voice said, “Hold on, stay with us.”

Caro felt herself rising out of Jude's arms into the melting sky. She looked down and saw the terrace. Jude and Raphael slanted over her, the red dress spilling between them.

 

Wilkerson's jet landed at the Bucharest airport in the middle of a snowstorm. A driver waited inside customs. He spoke little English, and he ushered Wilkerson to the car and tucked him into the backseat with a plaid blanket and a thermos filled with hot tea and brandy. Silence fell around Wilkerson like clean linen, fluttering at the edges. Perfect.

The car sped past slums, concrete buildings, and grand townhouses, and veered out of the city, into the Romanian countryside. The rounded hillocks gave way to mountains that rose up like dog teeth. Waterfalls plunged over snowy ledges into narrow gorges. Brasov was ringed by the eastern and southern Carpathian Mountains, and by the time they arrived, Wilkerson was seasick.

His mobile phone rang, but he took his time answering. It was Mr. Underwood. “Sir, they are still in Venice,” he said.

“Who?”
Wilkerson rubbed his eyes, wondering if Moose's stupefaction was contagious.

“Caroline Clifford and her companion. They're on Isla Carbonera. That's near—”

“I know where it is, you idiot.”

“Shall I contact MI5?”

“Not yet. Put Caroline under surveillance. No vampires. Make sure your men stay in the background.”

The car turned down an icy road and stopped in front of a gate that was laced with barbed wire. Wilkerson produced his credentials, and the guard waved them through. The driveway hadn't been snowplowed and Wilkerson saw nothing but a broad expanse of white. The car skidded up the driveway toward a modern building, gray concrete with tiny square windows. Tall, thin evergreens pressed inward on three sides, waiting and watching like starving beasts.

Wilkerson got out of the car. Snow fell sideways, and he leaned into the wind. Dr. Popovici and two men in lab coats were waiting in the lobby. As the doctor made introductions, Wilkerson waved an imperious hand. “Lovely to meet you. I'm in a bit of a rush. One of my operatives is ill. Where is the blood?”

“It is being packed in ice,” Dr. Popovici said, nodding to his assistants, who scuttled into an office.

“But you knew I was coming,” Wilkerson yelled. “Why didn't you have it ready?”

Dr. Popovici's cheeks blazed. “It was my understanding that you were also here to tour the facility. I have something extraordinary to show you.”

Wilkerson glanced at his Rolex, trying to mask his irritation. He didn't care about his minions or their credentials; he cared about results. “All right, then, but quickly.”

Popovici led him down a corridor with phones set into wall niches. The doctor pushed through a steel door into the animal studies lab. Cages were stacked to the ceiling: mice, rabbits, even a few mongrel dogs. Popovici gestured at the mice. “From the strain that were brought from the Yorkshire lab.”

Wilkerson's jaw twitched. The mice represented another one of Moose's failures, and another loose end. Two years ago, a British scientist from a rival pharmaceutical company had discovered the R-99 gene. Wilkerson had hoped to recruit the man and he'd dispatched Moose and the Bulgarians to York. The research lab had burned, and the biochemist had vanished.

Popovici strode into a hall and swiped a plastic card in front of the sensor; the doors clicked open. “Stage two trials are underway,” the doctor said. “We have volunteers, mostly peasants, but they are happy for the money and free blood.”

“How many volunteers?” Wilkerson blinked.

“Three vampires and one hybrid—that's a half vampire. They're rare.”

“The trials are going well, I hope.” Wilkerson glanced at his watch.

“We've made strides with the antiaging drug. However, we accidentally stumbled onto something that might interest you.”

Wilkerson smirked. Pharmaceutical “accidents” seldom interested him. Of course, penicillin was an unintended discovery, but most laboratory errors were fodder for the press, leading to ruination and bankruptcy.

“You might recall an incident several months ago, when we injected massive amounts of R-99 stem cells into humans?” Popovici smiled, showing small teeth. “The test subjects showed no antibody response to the infected blood, other than to transform into vampires. Naturally, the test subjects were euthanized, but—”

“This is old news.” Wilkerson flapped his hand. “Testing humans, destroying humans, dissecting humans. You're wasting my time.”

“Yes, sir, but this time we tested half vampires,” Popovici said. “As you know, the hybrids aren't easily transformed. And if one is bitten, their blood causes a mild toxic reaction in the vampire. Now, we understand why. Within a few hours of exposure, the hybrid produced numerous antibodies against the vampire stem cells. We extracted the antibodies from the blood and placed them into a centrifuge. It formed a concentrate. We infused a vampire with ten cc's of the concentrate. Within minutes, the patient was dead.”

“Of what?” Wilkerson frowned. He wasn't sure what Popovici was trying to prove. He didn't care about antibodies. He cared about the R-99 gene and immortality.

“Anaphylactic shock,” Popovici said.

“You're saying hybrid blood is lethal to vampires?” Wilkerson asked.

“If a hybrid's antibodies are extracted and concentrated, their blood becomes a weapon against vampires. A chemical stake to the heart.”

“I don't believe it,” Wilkerson said.

“Let me demonstrate.” Popovici stopped in front of a window with a red
5
painted on the glass. Wilkerson leaned forward and stared into a dimly lit room. A stoop-shouldered man with long gray hair lay on a hospital bed. A unit of blood hung from an IV pole, and a red tube snaked down into the man's wrist.

“This subject is a three-hundred-year-old vampire,” Popovici said. “For the last few weeks, we've kept him supplied with blood and satellite TV. He is content.”

Wilkerson glanced at Popovici. “Delightful. What's the point?”

Popovici walked over to a niche and reached for the phone. “Tell Dr. Lacusta we need the drug in room five.”

Wilkerson turned back to the window. The vampire's face was knitted in concentration as he watched a Romanian news show on the flat-screen television. Wilkerson ran one hand through his hair. “I desperately need to get back to Sofia. Will this take long?”

Before Popovici could reply, a door opened at the end of the hall, and a pear-shaped man in a lab coat appeared, holding a square tray with a syringe. “I am Dr. Lacusta,” he said.

“What's in the needle?” Wilkerson asked.

“Concentrated antibodies from a hybrid,” Lacusta said.

The portly doctor walked toward the vampire's room and swiped his card, and the door clicked open. He stepped over to the bed and chatted with the vampire while he injected the medicine into the intravenous tubing. Lacusta hurried out of the room and stepped behind Wilkerson.

Popovici looked at his watch. “The subject will be dead in three minutes. Although we can reverse it with an adrenaline injection, if you wish. You have two minutes and thirty-two seconds to make up your mind.”

The vampire sat up in bed and pounded his chest. His respirations were fast and shallow, accompanied by faint wheezing. He leaped out of the bed, dragging the IV with him, and lunged forward. The IV pole tipped over and clattered to the concrete floor. He staggered around the room, blood streaming down his hand. His lips turned blue, and he clawed at his throat, gasping for air. He grabbed the IV pole and flung it into the television. The screen caved in, and fire licked out. Smoke poured out of the jagged hole.